


Memory of a First Time

by tryslora



Series: All Our Yesterdays [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Dinner, Divorce, First Dates, First Kiss, M/M, Memories, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles meets Jackson for dinner to talk about what happened when their relationship exploded. Instead he finds himself on a walk down memory lane, thinking about their first date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory of a First Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a part of my tumblr kiss meme fills, for tylrhoechlns, and I sincerely hope they don't mind that it ended up being a part of this series. I saw the prompt and couldn't resist going back to tell this particular story. As always, I do not own the world or characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

Stiles has known Maria—the girl his favorite Italian restaurant is named after—since they were in high school together. After all these years, she owns the place now, inherited from her father, and her son is learning to cook in the back while her daughter helps out at the front. She greets Stiles warmly when he walks in, kissing his cheek and giving him a knowing smile. “He’s back,” she whispers, and Stiles knows that Jackson is already here.

“I gave him your table, of course.”

Because after all this time coming here, long ago with Dad, then with the pack sometimes, and with Jackson and Lydia, and eventually just with Nikki on his own… he has a table. It’s back in the corner, where Nikki can watch people going in and out of the kitchen, and if she stood on the bench when she was five, she could look through a small window and watch people cook.

Maria knows about the divorce—Beacon Hills is small enough that something like that could never be a secret—but she’s not privy to the details. No one was. He wonders what she thinks is happening, with Jackson here in their old place.

Stiles isn’t trying to recreate old memories. He just wants someplace familiar and comfortable, but someplace that is still neutral and not his home, nor a room Jackson is sharing with his sister.

He kisses Maria’s cheek and thanks her, lets himself be drawn into a hug. Then he threads his way through the small restaurant to the back; Jackson rises from his seat as Stiles approaches.

It seems like Jackson expects something, but Stiles isn’t going to hug him. They aren’t there yet, so they both stand there awkwardly for a moment, before Jackson puts his hand out. Stiles frowns.

“Jackson Whittemore,” he says, turning his hand slightly in offering.

Oh. This again.

“Stiles Stilinski.” He grasps Jackson’s hand and squeezes, feeling the tight grip back. It isn’t a fight, but it’s something of a game, both pressing tight before they release and sink into their respective seats.

The last time they played that particular game, they were surrounded by the pack and Jackson had just returned from England the summer after graduation. It was his way of saying _let’s start over_. Stiles isn’t sure it’s going to be that simple this time, but he lets it go, for now.

Stiles picks up the menu to look at it, even though he already knows what he’s going to order after seeing the specials board on his way in. Still, it gives him something to do as he pages through it, lingering over descriptions of meals until he can’t linger any more, not if he wants the waitress to come take their order.

When he sets the menu down, Jackson is looking at him.

It’s not fair that at forty-one, Stiles is pretty sure Jackson is even better looking than he was as a teenager, and when they were sixteen, Jackson looked like he had stepped off the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. Whereas Stiles has a bit of softness around his stomach that he fights with his daily three mile runs (five miles on Saturday) and he still has moles and strangely long fingers, and absolutely no confidence in his own appearance. Nikki assures him that he looks good for a dad, but Stiles is pretty sure she’s biased. He knows better than to ask Allison, and when he visits the graveyard he never says a word for fear he might actually get an answer.

Stranger things have been known to happen in Beacon Hills.

“Do you remember—”

“Don’t start.” Stiles raises one hand, thankful for the interruption of the waitress and two glasses of water. She takes their order and promises to come back soon with their respective beers, although Jackson assures her that they aren’t in a rush. Stiles can’t argue with him on that particular point. They have a lot to talk about tonight, and here is probably better than just about anywhere else.

Except maybe the graveyard, but he is _not_ going to go there.

“Why not?” Jackson leans his elbows on the table, pushing too close to Stiles’s personal space. “Are you trying to forget everything that happened between us?”

“Yes, I have been, for ten years,” Stiles says, voice flat. “It made it easier, Jackson. I focused on me and Nikki and moving forward. I made it through my father’s death. I’ve raised a child into a teenager. I’m teaching her to drive, and watching her fall in love for the first time. What makes you think that I want to relive the things that lead to my heartbreak?”

“It wasn’t all my fault.”

Stiles can’t meet his eyes, but he can nod slowly and admit the truth of that statement now. “I know.”

“Do you remember the first time we came here together?” Jackson asks.

“The first night you got back from London, the pack took you out,” Stiles replies.

“Not that.” Jackson points to the other back corner of the restaurant, where there are a cluster of smaller tables, made for twos and threes and fours, small groups that want an intimate dining experience. “The first time we came here on our own. Dating.”

Stiles presses his lips together thinly, because he can remember it all too clearly. “Yeah. Summer after freshman year of college, and we’d been home for all of what, three days at that point? The pack had gone out the first night, and then a bunch of us had gone out the second night, too. Dad didn’t want me to go out again, and I told him I had a date. I thought he was just about ready to keel over when you showed up.” Stiles smiles wryly. “The thing is, I’d just been joking. I didn’t think it was an actual date. We were getting along then. It’s amazing what happens when you’ve got a year to start over.”

Jackson had spent the summer after they all graduated high school in Beacon Hills, staying at Derek’s loft. Then they all scattered to their various colleges—Jackson going down south to UCLA, while Stiles went to Berkeley. They’d spent a year slowly reconnecting, trying to become friends over email; Stiles was surprised when it actually worked. Not that Jackson was a completely different person—he wasn’t. But they’d both changed enough to find a way to meet in the middle, and at least try not to tear their group of friends apart.

“I didn’t mention it was a date.” Jackson shrugs. “If you didn’t know, and you’d said no thanks, then my ego wasn’t bruised. But since you said yes, I was going to impress you.”

“You impressed Dad by being civil.” Stiles grins, because the memory of how speechless his father was still amuses him.

“He wasn’t the one I was trying to impress.” Jackson leans back, hands arm across the back of the booth. “I couldn’t figure out if it was working, or even if you had any idea what was going on. It was killing me. My palms were sweaty. I _never_ sweated over someone before.”

“You’d never dated me.” Stiles looks up as his beer is placed down, the glass chill with condensation. He takes a swallow and considers Jackson. “I’d say I was a step up, but… Lydia.” He raises his glass, and Jackson raises his as well, expression suddenly sober.

“Lydia,” Jackson says quietly, and they both drink before silence slips over them.

Stiles turns his glass, seeing patterns in the swirls of condensation that it leaves on the table. “Is that all it takes to kill the walk down memory lane?” he asks softly.

“That was the first night we kissed,” Jackson replies. He watches Stiles intently, and Stiles remembers what it is like to have that look focused on him, to see those eyes flash unexpectedly blue.

And yes, he remembers that night, walking up to his porch, not sure why Jackson was coming with him. They didn’t game together, and Stiles was more than capable of opening his own front door. But Jackson stood there, leaning against the rail, watching him try to fumble his key from his pocket.

“Did you—want to come in and watch a DVD or something?” Stiles floundered for words, looking for _something_ to say to break the intensity of Jackson’s regard.

Jackson shook his head. “Not tonight. We need to save something for our second date.”

“Second… what?” Stiles turned, key finally in hand, just in time for Jackson to step closer.

First kisses were supposed to be awkward, but Stiles supposed that Jackson was the kind of guy who couldn’t help but do everything perfectly. It started out light, lips barely brushing, just enough contact for Stiles to know Jackson meant it, and to give him the chance to step away if he didn’t want it. 

Stiles wasn’t going to step away.

The key fell from his hand, clattering against the step as Stiles reached up, fingers curling over Jackson’s shoulders. An arm slid around Stiles’s waist, anchoring him as Jackson tilted his head and Stiles went with it, mouth opening to give himself over to the kiss.

Slow and easy, with small nibbles and nips to his lower lip that left Stiles whimpering. Jackson cradled his head gently, keeping him exactly in place, controlling the kiss but also somehow keeping Stiles secure.

Wanted. For the first time, Stiles felt _wanted_. He made a small sound, and Jackson teased him with his tongue, still gentle even when Stiles wanted to devour him in return.

Soft. Slow. Strangely… romantic.

Stiles had a feeling, back then, that if he had listened he would have heard music playing in the background, a slow build of violins that screamed _this is the one_.

It wasn’t what he’d expected when he’d climbed into Jackson’s car earlier that day.

He’d blinked into the glare of the porch light when Jackson finally stepped back, thumb lightly stroking across Stiles’s lip. “What was that?”

“First date,” Jackson said. “First kiss.” A slow smirk started. “We’ve got all summer for a number of firsts. Make a list. We’ll take care of the ones that are on both our lists first.”

For once in his life, Stiles had no words, no response, and that only seemed to amuse Jackson as he sauntered off.

As first kisses go, it had been brilliant. He stares into his beer now, remembering it, feeling the warmth rise to his cheeks. “I remember,” he says softly. “Don’t think you’re recreating that night now.”

Jackson’s laugh is dry, perhaps bitter. “I’m not under any illusions, Stiles. Remember, I’m as angry with you as you are with me.”

Stiles nods, long fingers tapping against the side of his glass. “Right.” He looks up to meet his gaze. “Let’s get this started. Tell me about when you met Amanda.”

He drains the beer before Jackson gets started talking. It’s going to be a long night, and he has a feeling he’s going to need it.


End file.
